


The Chemistry Between Us

by bironic



Category: Original Work
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Blackmail, F/M, Mathematics, Object Insertion, POV Multiple, Teacher-Student Relationship, Underage Sex, Virginity, abuse of lab equipment, evil bi (sorry), if you want it to be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-30 20:17:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19410625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bironic/pseuds/bironic
Summary: "You're one of the only students who doesn't seem to like me," Mr. Q murmured. His gaze dropped, she swore, to her parted lips before rising again.





	The Chemistry Between Us

**Author's Note:**

  * For [monsoon_moon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/monsoon_moon/gifts).



_"Come see me after school, Liv, all right? We need to talk about your final lab report."_

Olivia fretted about those ominous two sentences the rest of the day. All through sixth period, seventh, and finally eighth, she replayed Mr. Q's words, his serious gaze and pursed lips, as the knot of dread tightened in her stomach. 

What had gone wrong? She'd been carrying an 85 unweighted average in chemistry all year, not as great as most of her other classes, and she'd struggled more than usual to earn it. This time she must've really screwed something up. 

She made her way to Mr. Q's classroom after the final bell had rung and she'd said goodbye to her friends at their lockers. She could catch the late bus today.

As usual, a gaggle of girls had parked on chair-desks and lab benches, laughing and draping themselves into various poses and generally being shameless flirts. Liv mentally rolled her eyes. Dale Quackenbush may have been voted "sexiest male teacher" in the unofficial supplement to the senior class yearbook—the straight girls and gay guys loved his smooth olive skin and sensual mouth and the asymmetrical hairstyle that meant he was forever tucking a sleek black lock behind one ear, the jocks admired his workout regimen and encyclopedic knowledge of NFL and NBA stats, the hardcore nerds appreciated how he let them mess around in the lab under his supervision after school, and overall he was regarded as too cool to be teased about his last name—but Olivia wasn't here to worship celebrities; she just wanted to do well in her classes and move away to college in the fall.

She waited by the door for the fan club to disperse. When it became clear after a few minutes that they weren't going anywhere, she knocked. Pointedly.

"Liv!" said Mr. Q. "Good. Excuse me, ladies, I need to speak with Olivia."

The groupies filed out with groans of disappointment and a chorus of "Bye, Q!"s.

"Come on in. Close the door, if you don't mind."

Her stomach twisted again. If he didn't want passersby to hear their conversation, it was gonna be bad. Still, she tried to keep her expression light.

Mr. Q leaned against his desk, ankles crossed. He waved at the rows of chair-desks that made up half the classroom. "Put your things down. This is going to take a minute."

She swallowed and lowered her backpack to a chair. "You said… Is there a problem with my report?"

"I'm afraid there is. And it may be serious." 

Oh, God. This close to graduation, this much of her total chemistry grade, and the merit scholarship that would allow her to attend her first-choice college, contingent on her final report card, could be in jeopardy.

"What—what happened?"

"I was hoping you could tell me." He folded his arms. "Your numbers don't add up, and you made some pretty basic mistakes with your terminology."

Oh, no. She'd double-checked the calculations with her lab partner, but they must have missed something. And the vocab… she must've made careless errors in the stress-fueled rush of the end of the school year.

"Oh," she said in a small voice. 

"You could be looking at a failing grade, Liv," he said.

Her throat was tight, her eyes hot. Please, please don't let her cry in front of a teacher.

Mr. Q pushed himself upright. "Now, I'm not supposed to adjust grades once final assignments are turned in. It's against district rules." He took a step toward her, and the crossing of that small distance made him feel suddenly very close. Olivia's heart beat faster. "But I'm considering making an exception in your case. I know this carelessness isn't like you."

Hope rose in her chest. Just as quickly, though, it got tangled up with fear as Mr. Q took another step, nearly invading her personal space. She stepped back instinctively and bumped into a desk. What was happening here? She edged to the side instead, toward the wall.

"I…" she tried, even as he continued to come forward and she retreated. She shoved down the desire to panic. He couldn't mean to threaten her, or to touch her, as his behavior implied. She must have been misunderstanding something, like she'd done in her report. "Thank you."

"I haven't decided yet," Mr. Q clarified.

Her back hit the wall.

He boxed her in with a hand to each side. 

She threw a desperate look over Mr. Q's shoulder at the door. Surely more girls would stop by to flirt, or someone, at least, would pass through the hall and glance inside. But no, she'd forgotten that an Einstein poster covered the door's glass panel, sticking out its tongue at her.

Mr. Q was so close she could feel his body heat, could smell the faint cologne that Ava and Jeannette had spent way too many lunch periods trying to identify. She stared up at him, breaths coming short and ragged through her mouth.

"You're one of the only students who doesn't seem to like me," Mr. Q murmured. His gaze dropped, she swore, to her parted lips before rising again.

This wasn't happening. It couldn't be. It couldn't. He wasn't. Her gut churned with fear and denial and confusion and an excitement she didn't want to examine too closely.

Somehow, she found her voice. "I like you fine," she managed. "You're—a good teacher." Or he had been, until now.

"You never drop by outside of class," he pointed out. She couldn't look away from the intensity in his eyes. "You don't blush when I call on you."

"I'm sorry?" She hadn't meant for it to sound like a question, but she didn't know what to say, what to do. She'd left her backpack too far away, and there was nothing to grab over here besides spiral-notebook art of the periodic table taped to the wall, even if she thought she could take a swing at her teacher and run for it, which she doubted.

"Olivia Johnson," he mused. He smoothed back a few strands of hair that had escaped her ponytail. Her whole body started to shake. "Honor society, principal's list, attendance award, study hall monitor. All work and no pleasure."

He cupped the side of her face and stroked her cheek with his thumb. She stood there, petrified.

Then Mr. Q leaned in and kissed her.

So Liv shared her second-ever kiss, after her first at senior prom, with her chemistry teacher. His lips were strong and dry. He didn't shove his tongue in or anything, just pressed their mouths together before taking her upper lip, then her lower, between his own. She didn't kiss back, although her lips twitched as her muscles continued to freak out about this whole unreal situation. She'd shut her eyes. Her mind and pulse raced. In a crazy flash, it occurred to her how many classmates would kill to trade places with her.

It wasn't until he pulled away and she sucked in a lungful of air that she realized she'd been holding her breath. 

"That wasn't so bad, yeah?" Mr. Q asked, sounding like when he collected everyone's tests. "Nothing to be scared of."

What were they even talking about anymore? "I don't understand." Her voice came out a whisper.

"You need top marks for that scholarship, don't you?"

This was really happening. Her teacher was willing to bend the rules and fix her mistakes, but only if she did… something sexual… with him. The stuff of nightmares and fantasies and after-school specials. At least, she was ninety-nine percent sure that's what he meant. Her pulse pounded in her throat.

"Well, Liv?" he asked, head tilted. His hair swung forward. This time he didn't tuck it behind his ear. "Do you want to ace your final quarter?"

A part of her curled up inside when she said, still so quiet, "What do you want me to d-do?"

Mr. Q touched her cheek again. "I want you to correctly name three pieces of lab equipment I've selected. Can you do that for me?"

Her thoughts stuttered at the unexpected reply. "That's it?"

"More or less."

Right. With a sinking feeling, she wondered what exactly "more" meant.

She should scream. She should run straight to the principal's office and report this outrageous breach of the rules. She should get out of here right now and post online about how everyone's favorite teacher was a blackmailing creep.

But not only were all of those options terrifying, they wouldn't solve the problem of her grade. Her GPA. Her scholarship. Her entire academic future.

She closed her eyes and nodded.

*

It was finally happening. 

After months of trying to crack Olivia's all-business façade to no avail, Dale had her right where he wanted her. Metaphorically, anyway. Physically, she'd be in position in a moment; he guided her over to the lab bench and cart he'd prepped for the occasion.

It had been a while since he'd fooled around with a student. Usually he liked them enthusiastic—there was nothing better than getting your dick sucked by a cheerleader eager for someone more mature than the football players or by a science club kid too nervous to experiment with other boys in his class—but once in a while he fell prey to the allure of someone he couldn't have, someone who proved immune to his charms. Someone like Olivia, who'd swallowed his B.S. about wrong answers hook, line and sinker and was now his for the taking. And therein lay an entirely different set of delights.

"Hands on the end of the bench, please," he told her.

She obeyed, even though she kept on shivering like it was midwinter and not a muggy June afternoon. Oh, this was going to be good.

"Take a step back. Another. One more. There you go."

She was bent at about 45 degrees now, ass out in those denim shorts: the perfect height for him to step forward and press his crotch into her. She gasped and curved away. 

He tugged her back by the hips. "Stay."

First things first: He slid off her ponytail holder and finger-combed her light brown hair to one side. There—she already looked softer, sexier. Liv wasn't particularly beautiful, but once Dale had started fantasizing about her like this, the littlest things about her drove him wild. Like that line that appeared between her eyebrows as she attacked problem sets. Or the way she absently chewed her pen caps in the front row. Or those memorable few times when she'd worn a sundress and forgotten to cross her legs.

He popped the button on her shorts.

Olivia jerked her arm close to block him. "Mr. Q—"

"Keep your hands on the bench, Liv. Don't make me deduct points for disobedience."

It took a minute, but the reminder about her grade did the trick and she got back into position. Only then did Dale lower her zipper and wriggle his hand inside.

She pressed her thighs together against his questing fingers. "Legs wider, there's a good girl," he coaxed. Again the delay as Liv wrestled with herself, but again she submitted. 

Ah, that was better. He stayed outside her underwear for now, tracing over the bump of her clit, the seam of her cunt, through the thin cotton. She drew in a soft breath and squirmed, caught between pushing back into his increasingly apparent erection and pulling away when he'd told her not to. She was hot down there all right, but not wet, not yet.

"Has anyone ever touched you here?" he wondered as he fondled her. Liv didn't strike him as the partying type, and he hadn't seen her hanging out with any particular boy more than others.

She shook her head. "Just—"

When she didn't offer anything more, he prompted, "Just what?"

"Just my doctor," she confessed in a small voice.

Oh, fuck. Delicious. "I'm guessing he doesn't touch you quite like this, mm?" He skittered his fingernails over her clit.

Liv took another shaky breath. "She," was all she got out. 

And wasn't that an even prettier picture.

When he'd sufficiently whetted his appetite, Dale pulled his hand out and reached for the cart on his right. Glove first, and lube.

"What are you—?" Olivia craned her neck to see. 

"Preparation for our experiment." Holding the elastic waistband out of the way, he pushed his gloved hand into her underwear.

She jumped.

"Shh," he soothed even though he didn't want her to stop. "I'm not gonna hurt you."

She made a sound between a laugh and a sob, and damn if that didn't go straight to his dick.

He could feel so much more detail now, even with the latex. A couple of swipes smeared the lube around her clit and outer lips before he spread her open and started to press his middle finger into her.

Olivia whimpered, tensing and curling into herself. He held her to him with his arm across her hips.

She was just as tight as he'd imagined. Like trying to work a nozzle into rubber tubing. He made himself go slow; he wanted her hot and bothered and begging him, not damaged. As to whether she ended up pleading for him to stop or to keep going, well, he could go either way. 

Inch by inch, he got most of his finger in there. He held still at first to let her get used to the intrusion, but eventually he couldn't help himself; he flexed his finger a few times. To make sure the lube got where it needed to go, of course. Liv flinched and made another high-pitched noise. Hot as hell. 

Dale slid free. On to the good stuff. 

He picked up the first piece of glassware. "All right, Liv, first question. What is this called?"

Olivia looked at what he held, then twisted around further to check with him. And there were those pink cheeks he'd been hoping for. Flushed and confused, she asked, "Is this a trick?"

"Basic terminology," he reminded her, as though she hadn't just turned in her best report of the year. "You _do_ know what this is, right?"

"It's… a test tube."

"Good. Face forward."

He lubed up the round end before stripping off the glove. Then he took the tube by the non-slippery rim, tugged the crotch of her shorts and underwear to one side with his other hand, and pushed the glass into her from below.

Liv whined. Dale had to close his eyes to keep from dropping the act and fucking her over the cart. He couldn't risk leaving behind that kind of evidence.

He let go of the test tube long enough for her muscles to force it out, then pushed it in again. It belonged to one of his smallest sets, and his prep plus the lube did the trick; the glass slid easily where no man besides him had gone before.

"How does that feel?" he asked. Out and in, hold. Out and in, hold.

Liv appeared to be beyond words. Her fingertips had gone white where she clutched the bench, and she'd dropped her head, showing him the long line of her neck. He needed to bite that later when he had better leverage. For now, he repeated his question.

"Cold," she choked out.

"What else?" He held the tube inside her and moved the end in gentle circles.

She made a plaintive noise. 

"Come on, Liv, show me those observation skills." 

"H-hard."

Reduced to single syllables; excellent. "Which do you like better, the test tube or my finger?"

No response. He gave her several rapid thrusts. He was never going to get tired of those little sounds escaping her throat. 

"Neither."

"A or B, Liv."

"I don't _know_."

"All right, then; let's gather more evidence." He let her push it out for good this time.

"No, I didn't—"

He dropped the tube in the tub of soapy water on the lower shelf of the cart. "Step out of your shorts, please."

She visibly trembled. "Please, no, Mr. Q…"

As if that weren't delightful enough, Olivia's lips parted when she turned to discover him putting on a new glove and applying more lube.

"Do you want to stop?" he asked. "We can stop, but you haven't convinced me yet that you know the material."

Her eyes continued to plead, but she bit her lip, turned her face away and, yep, worked her shorts off. She nudged them in front of her with one sandaled foot. Smart girl didn't even need the reminder to put her hands back on the bench when she finished.

Her panties had tiny rainbow hearts. "Cute." He ran a finger across her ass before reaching around to tug the cloth out of the way again. He could've had her take these off too, of course, but he liked undressing them in stages.

Two fingers this time. Liv bent and straightened her knees, trying to ease his passage, which—bonus—meant she also rubbed against his aching hard-on.

It didn't take long to stretch her out. He turned to prep the next piece of equipment.

"What's this one, Liv?" he asked as he coated the top half liberally. 

Her wide-eyed reaction was everything he'd hoped for.

"Gra—" She swallowed. "Graduated c-c-cylinder, oh my God, please don't, please—"

He did.

This time he crouched behind her so he could see what he was doing, letting out a strained breath at the pressure in his pants. Underwear to the side once more, baring the secret pink of her, the little hole that glistened and contracted as he spread her ready. Then he nudged the spout of the cylinder into place.

"Oh God," Liv moaned as he began to work it in. "No, please, it's not—it won't—it's too big—"

The thing was actually narrower than his two fingers had been, but it sure was rounder, colder, unyielding. He kept going, slow but steady against the resistance of muscles she probably hadn't used before today except maybe for tampons, two steps forward and one step back as she fought to relax, until an impressive portion had disappeared inside her. Fuck, he could see a little ways up in there through the lube-smeared glass.

"Look how much you're taking, such a good girl." He kissed her trembling thigh as he stopped pushing; this appeared to be about as much as she could handle for the moment. "You're down to the eighty-milliliter mark."

She whimpered.

He gave her a few seconds to acclimate before he sprang the question on her. "Okay, Liv, time to test your simple math skills."

"Wh-what?"

"Your test question is: How many inches of this cylinder are inside you right now?" 

For the first time, Liv dared to look down at him between her legs. Her face went bright red at the sight of either his arousal or the glassware sticking out of her cunt. Maybe both. She lifted her head again before she asked with a beautiful waver, "Seriously?"

"I'll give you the only two pieces of information you need. The cylinder is nine inches long, and the one hundred-milliliter mark is about two-thirds of the way up."

"I don't—I don't—"

"Come on, I know you're smarter than that. Break down the problem. How do we begin?" he asked in his sing-song "teacher voice." 

"Estimate," she parroted from many classes past. He started to rock the cylinder, gently, so gently, just enough to throw her off again. " _Ah_ —"

"Estimate," he confirmed. "If one hundred is two-thirds of the way up, and the length is nine inches, then…"

"Then…" She adjusted her stance, but he doubted she could make what he was doing any less distracting. "Two-thirds of nine is... six."

"But?" he prompted. 

"But...?" Her back straightened when she caught on. "But we're measuring from the t-top down. So... so six from nine is three, three inches."

"Good girl. Now refine to eighty milliliters."

"So eighty... eighty... is more, but how much more..." He added a twist to his movements. "I can't do this, I can't think…"

"Yes, you can. You wrote that lab under pressure, too. Show me you can earn that A."

He let her figure it out while he corkscrewed the cylinder in and out, leisurely, maybe half an inch in all. Should he touch her clit too? It was right there, shiny and inviting.

Soon enough, she navigated her way through it, as he knew she would. 

"If one hundred is two-thirds," she said slowly, voice strained, "then fifty is one-third, or three inches more. And seventy-five is halfway between fifty and a hundred, so an inch and a half. And eighty is a little closer to the top of the cyl—cylinder, so... three inches plus a little less than an inch and a half is... almost four and a half inches."

"Oh, good job, Liv. I knew you had it in you." He snorted at discovering his own pun. "Literally. And for the record, you're now at seventy-five milliliters, so congratulations, you're taking four and a half inches even."

He did touch her clit, then. She deserved it. So did he. Liv gasped and clenched up, which made the cylinder slip further into her, which made her gasp again and stumble. Dale would bet good money her little loss of balance didn't completely explain why she'd pushed forward into his touch. He circled his thumb over her clitoral hood a few times, then dipped beneath again, riveted by the intimate topography of her. Tender and hot and lube-slick as Liv's control slipped bit by bit, just the way he'd dreamed.

"What do you think," he asked, "does that feel good?"

"N-no." But he heard the edge in her voice, and he felt the way her body was starting to respond.

"You deserve a reward for solving that problem. Your choice: Should I keep going"—he jiggled the cylinder, eliciting another clench—"or take it out?"

"Out."

"Positive?" He drew out the "o" as if hinting to a class that they'd gotten an answer wrong.

"Not funny, Mr. Q," she managed, sounding more like herself than she had in a while. He was both amused and disappointed. Ah, well; they still had a treat or two to enjoy.

"All right. Out we go, then." He worked the cylinder free, pausing to admire the sight it left behind before he stood. God, his knees; he was getting old. He wiped off his finger on her hip, dropped the cylinder in the soapy tub and repeated the prep for the last part of the trifecta.

"I'm going to need you to step one leg out of those adorable panties," he said.

Her head whipped around in alarm and, judging from the fresh flush, embarrassment. Two more cracks in the armor. "That wasn't…"

He raised his eyebrows.

"What if someone—?" she tried.

"No one's coming in here until the six o'clock janitor. It's just you and me and your final-quarter grade. You're almost there, Liv. Don't throw it all away now."

She chewed her lip, studying his gaze, then bent to do as he asked. Score. He drank in the sight of her, naked from the hem of her shirt to her Birkenstocks. If all went well, he'd be seeing even more of her soon. 

He directed her to leave her underwear around one ankle. When she straightened back up, he leaned in. "Spead your legs more," he murmured. They were going to need the extra room.

Three fingers from behind, just to be sure the final faux-dildo would wind her up but not actually hurt her. He ungloved for the last time and held up the pièce de résistance with a flourish. "Last but not least."

Liv's expression pinched when she saw it. "Erlenm-meyer flask." Her voice cracked on the "a."

"Well done. Three for three." He would have slow-clapped if his hands hadn't been busy with more entertaining actions. "After this, you're home free. If you want to be."

He was able to push the neck into her with minimal fuss, a gorgeous smooth slide accompanied by her soft intake of breath. Then came the more evil portion as the flask widened. He went slowly again, waiting to find out how much he could get away with. 

Olivia rocked up onto the balls of her feet, trying to escape, an awkward endeavor with her legs so far apart to accommodate the flask's full width. Then, as it stretched her a little bit more, she let out an appealing few whimpers. He kept going until she twitched and grabbed at the bench and said, "Ow ow—"

He eased it out a smidge. Not a bad tableau, her bare ass framing the flask half-buried inside her. 

Much as he wanted to thrust the thing in and out of her as fast as he could until she came around it with a scream that this whole wing of the school would hear, he kept control and began another gentle rhythm, careful not to push the flask—or Olivia—too far. "How's that?" he asked. Push in, glide out, over and over, the suck and squelch of lube, nothing dramatic, until she relaxed a little, settling on her heels again, some of the tension draining from her back and shoulders. Beautiful. "Hm? How are you feeling? Confused? Scared? Turned on? Like you hate my guts even more now? Like you want to pretend you're still only doing it for your grade? Maybe a little of everything?" 

Her breathing had picked up again. "I can't—" she tried. "I can't believe people think you're nice." 

He laughed. Was it his imagination, or was she moving with him ever so slightly?

He gave her a few more strokes before he stopped. He'd been hoping for a mew of protest, but her ragged exhalation wasn't bad, considering.

"Work with me here," he said, and holding the flask in place, he helped her step back into her panties. He pulled them up as high as they would go, trapping the flask inside her, the hearts distorted around the bulbous base. He snapped the elastic when he was done, just for fun.

"And that's your math and vocab corrected, as promised," he said. Gambling on a number just low enough that she would go for it, he added, "I'd say we're looking at an 80 now. Would you like a bonus question for extra credit?"

She hesitated, then shook her head.

"No? Are you sure? I think maybe you're not sure."

"I—I have to catch the late bus."

He glanced at the clock. They had more than half an hour. "Plenty of time. Two more identifications, five points each."

No way she would turn down a 90. Not when she didn't know she'd actually earned slightly higher than that.

Yeah, there she went. She turned to see what else lay in store on the cart, considering his offer, but he'd stocked it with more than he was going to use, in part so it hadn't looked suspicious during the day, so she wouldn't know for certain what was coming. 

She squinted at him, probably torn between wanting an A and wanting to kick him in the nuts. He was fairly certain part of her wanted him to fuck her with that flask again, too. "Okay."

He smiled, letting some of the edge show. 

"Face forward again," he said. When she'd done so, he picked up the first clamp and put it on the bench in front of her. "One."

She took in the metal rod, the two curved grippers with the adjustable screw between them. "Clamp?"

"That's right." He slid her shirt up, slowly, letting his thumb trail over her spine, bump by bump, as he exposed her back. He felt as well as saw the hot, prickling flush that swept over her. Her bra was a plain pink cotton. He pushed the shirt over her shoulders and head and left it hanging around her wrists.

"But do you know what kind?" he added.

She shook her head. He unhooked the bra and let it fall open. She gave a quiet sob.

Peeling back Olivia's defenses one by one… After all these months of tantalizing bra lines visible through her thinner tops and dresses, of glimpses of cleavage on days hot enough for tank tops, he reached around and palmed her breasts. They may have been on the small side—maybe a B cup—but hell if he cared at this point. So soft, god damn.

"Stand up," he said. "Lean back into me."

It took some trial and error with the flask still forcing her legs apart, but soon he had full-body contact. Her head came to just above his chin; he tucked her into his shoulder, sweeping her hair out of the way. He sniffed it as he coaxed her bra down her arms and tossed it onto the bench alongside her shirt. Some kind of herbal shampoo, half bitter and half sensual; very Olivia. 

He rolled a nipple between his fingers and gazed down the front of her body. Needing some relief, he pressed his other hand to her lower stomach and rocked into the warm crease of her ass. That got another noise out of her. She didn't seem to know what to do with her hands, reaching to cover her chest or push him away before catching herself. Finally, she left them at her sides. Her nails dug half-moons into her thighs.

"This," he said, retrieving the clamp, "is an extension clip." 

He got a decent grip on it so he could start tightening the screw one-handed. Pinching her nipple with his other hand, he told her, so close to her ear, "It's also called flask clip, or a single burette clamp, or a two-prong burette clamp. This type of end is known as a round jaw." The clamps closed around her. "See how each prong is coated with rubber so it doesn't scratch? Nice and easy." He gave the screw another few turns until Olivia twisted in his arms with a whimper.

He let go. The clamp's weight tugged her breast down. Gorgeous. He'd love to take calipers to those nipples, or, yeah, to her clit, but this position wasn't great for it.

"Mr. Q…"

The tension in her voice was divine. If she turned her head, she could kiss his neck. "Yes?"

She clearly wanted to pull the thing off, but there was something else she wanted more. "N-nothing."

Yeah, he thought so.

"And this," he said, picking up the other clamp, "is…?"

He held it in front of them so Olivia could see it, resembling nothing so much as a skinny robot arm with three plasticine-encased fingers.

"I don't know," she admitted.

He _tsk_ ed, even though there was no reason she should be able to identify it since they hadn't used any this year. "A three-prong clip." It took more maneuvering to get this one closed over her other nipple. He nuzzled her hair while he worked. "It gives you more flexibility with the equipment you can attach to your stand." There: three pretty divots in her breast as the clamp held her in its tiny grip.

He slid his arms across Olivia's belly and gave her a shake that sent the clamps swaying. She made a sweet sound of complaint. 

"Can you tell the difference between them now?" he asked. He flicked the clamp over her left breast. 

"F-flask," she said. 

He flicked the other one. 

"Three-prong."

"Good. Are they still bothering you?"

She nodded.

"Too bad." He'd been hoping she would like them, but this worked just as well.

Olivia stiffened. "You—"

"I what?"

"You're such an asshole," she said, all in a rush, like she was afraid she'd get in trouble for swearing at a teacher after every rule they'd broken today.

He only laughed again. "Would an asshole do this?" He tweaked the double-prong clip—he couldn't help himself—then unscrewed it enough to release her.

"Ow," she exclaimed as circulation rushed back in. He tossed the clamp away. "F…frick."

He took the opportunity to massage her breast, taking extra care to soothe the abused nipple. Olivia Johnson nearly dropping the f-bomb; who'd have thought? "I will give you another point if you say what you meant the first time."

That, of all things, appeared to be where she drew the line. "No."

He switched hands on her breast so he could slide his right one down between her legs, into her underwear, playing with her clit, sliding further back to tease where she was stretched tight around the flask. She squirmed and started breathing faster out of her mouth. "Three points if you let me spank you," he tried.

"No."

He knew she'd never agree, but: "Five points if you kiss me."

" _No_."

He took his hand out of her panties so he could tug them down a couple of inches to make room. He gripped the flask by the base and slid it almost all the way out, pulling the cloth along with it. Then he pushed it in again, stopping before the flare became too much for her. Again. Again. He experimented with firmer strokes than before and was rewarded with a series of soft noises that sounded much more like pleasure than pain.

He pressed his mouth to her temple. "I will give you a 100 mark for this quarter if you come."

Olivia went hot. She didn't answer. 

He waited, giving it to her with the flask and cupping her breast. She still didn't say anything. 

Well: No news was good news as far as he was concerned. 

God, he wished he could just fuck her. He could see it so clearly: rutting into her while he bent her in half over his desk, forcing moans out of her until he had to cover her mouth so no one in the hall would come investigating. But Olivia would be more likely to report him if he did that, plus the evidence would be more damning.

Instead, he angled the flask to try to hit her G-spot, reached around to massage her clit and murmured commentary. She took a slow, deep breath. "I wonder how you'll like to take it when someone finally gets into those buttoned-up pants of yours. Besides me and your lady doctor, that is. Hard or tender, fast or slow? Fucking"—that startled her—"or making love? Will you loosen up enough to suck dick? Wait 'til you feel a mouth on you. Would you let someone do that? Who would you give it up for, hm? Who would you let unravel you?"

Olivia, who'd started rocking into him in the most delicious and frustrating way, found her voice. "Not you."

Oh, it was on. He grabbed her by the back of the neck and bent her forward so she had to grip the bench again for balance. He slid his thigh between her legs and tugged her hips back so he bumped the flask into her. That earned him a wordless cry. He kept moving her forward and back, forward and back, firm but not rough enough to really hurt her, helping himself out in the process as her ass collided with his erection. The second clamp fell off and clattered to the floor. He soaked up her helpless responses. She was no screamer, alas, but she did sound needier by the minute.

He let go of one hip and worked her clit hard through her underwear, pressing the heel of his hand into her pubic bone. She keened.

"You gonna come for me, Olivia?" Her hair swung every which way. Her butt cheeks jiggled with each thrust. He knew her breasts were bouncing too, mottled red from the clamps, even though he couldn't see them. "Go on. Come for that A. Show me how much you like chemistry."

It was a terrible line, but he didn't give a fuck, because Liv went tense and shaky, and her breath stuttered, and—oh, glorious day—she came apart beneath him. He touched the flask with the hand that wasn't rubbing her through her orgasm so he could feel the last clenches pull at it.

When she was finished, he leaned down and nipped the back of that tempting neck.

"Get off me," Olivia panted. She pushed away from him and the bench. 

They stood a few feet apart, staring at each other. Dale smelled his fingers, wondering which was better, the heavy musk or the expression on Liv's face when she realized what he was doing. He took a mental photo of her, disheveled and flushed down to her chest, wearing nothing but her flask-distorted underwear and sandals. She seemed to realize how exposed she was at the same time, because she crossed one arm over her breasts and reached for her shirt.

"Come here," he said. "I'll take that out for you."

He may have sounded helpful, but mostly he wanted to get that flask into the safety of the wash bin before she got any ideas. 

That done, she turned to get dressed, which was fine, because while she was busy he could finally, finally unfasten his belt and rip open his fly and jerk off before he fucking exploded.

It took all of about ten seconds. He remembered just in time to grab a fresh glove so he didn't jizz across the glassware or the floor where someone could go all CSI on it later.

"Oh my God, ew," Olivia said when she turned back around and saw him. She was fully clothed once more, but her hair was still down and her cheeks were still pink. Nice.

In an ideal world, he wouldn't be too knocked out by an orgasm to summon a witty reply. As it was, he just waved her off.

She went to the desk where she'd left her backpack. She at least let him put himself back together before she said, "You're disgusting."

"That's a minority opinion around here," he pointed out. He tucked away the used gloves in his lab coat; he'd take care of them later.

Another pause before she asked, tentatively this time, "So, 100 for the quarter?"

Olivia to the core. "On condition that what happened doesn't leave this room."

She thought about it. 

"And if you're thinking you'll wait until report cards come out and then blab," because she wasn't stupid, "think again, because you'll have to prove your version of events over mine." 

"What do you mean?"

"I mean how you came to me after everyone else had gone, found out you weren't going to pass, and tried to convince me to raise your grade by offering sexual favors."

She stared at him. "That's not…"

He shrugged.

"They won't believe you."

"Are you sure? Everyone knows how much you care about your grades. How much you need that scholarship."

She wavered.

"It's our own little balanced equation," he said. "Win-win. You go to your first-choice college, I get to keep this delightful memory."

"I go to college, you don't get fired," she corrected him. He definitely liked this sassy side of her. "Fine."

"Fine," he mimicked. "See you in class tomorrow."

She hefted her backpack. "Can I have my hair tie back?"

Oh, right. He gave it to her off his wrist.

Ponytail up, armor reestablished, she took a steadying breath and opened the door.

Couldn't let her have the last word.

"Any other classes you need help in?" he offered. "I'm friends with Mr. Laramie in the Social Studies department."

She slammed the door behind her.


End file.
